


Bitter Medicine

by estike



Category: The Red and The Black - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24140362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estike/pseuds/estike
Summary: Heartbroken, and offended to the core by the ephemeral affections of Mathilde, Julien is offered a bitter albeit effective medicine to set everything right. Little does he know, Korasoff's medicine is not what he may first imagine it to be.
Relationships: Prince Korasoff/Julien Sorel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Bitter Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% based on Takarazuka's 2020 revival of The Red and The Black - and does not consider the book version at all. 
> 
> Also partially inspired by the way Tsukishiro Kanato repeatedly crosses her legs on the bench at one point in the musical.

He could have looked at Paris as a change of pace. And, in a way, he certainly did. 

A road of retribution, from getting lost in women, to focusing on what used to be truly important in his mind, before Madame de Rênal with her simple, gullible, thoughtless feminine charm had captivated his brain. Women were, after all, poison, that did nothing but seep under men’s skin, deterring them from the road of success. What started as the urge to show Madame de Rênal that she did, indeed, make a great mistake when refusing his dirty, lowborn hand. What started as the need to prove to the world and himself that he can, indeed, take what belonged to M. de Rênal with ease - ended up in Julien almost believing for a moment that he wanted to stay at this place, with Madame de Rênal’s insufferable children, and the tedium of the countryside. 

Was that not, in itself, the only proof needed, that women bore this power to deteriorate even the most promising of brains? And yet, how can you make a man reject the pleasures of love ever again, once he had known it already? 

Fouqué told him, of course. 

“Julien,” he would always say, with black beads in his eyes and slight pleading in his voice. “Just forget about this for now. I could give you the life you need.”

He said, you need. Not want. Because Fouqué knew him well enough not to insult him with even assuming his ambitions were anything but beyond the clouds. And, he also knew him well enough to want to save him from himself, with that gentle, friendly love that Julien had not asked for, albeit at the darkest times appreciated. He lived, entitled to his passions and ambitions, and cherishing the only man who’d beg him to stop out of pure concern. Julien refused him all the same, but the thought was appreciated.

And so, he left for the convent. And from the convent he left for Paris, too, despite Fouqué’s seductive words, beckoning him towards a life of simplicity and security. But security often came paired with tedium and for a man who promised himself the world, tedium was a greater enemy than death. Julien would, gladly, sacrifice his whole life on the altar of fame and success (and perhaps love), should it bring him the stardom he had been pining for. 

Paris was indeed a change of pace. He was told that becoming a personal secretary for the Marquis de la Mole would not satisfy him for too long. But the change was welcome. 

For a while at least, until he got used to the monotonousness of the frivolous, day-to-day parties frequented by important people who looked for nothing more but an escape into careless flirtation, vile gossip, and soft background music. 

Once his honeymoon period with Paris would be over, Julien realized that once again he was surrounded by people who were simultaneously better and so much worse than him. The endless race towards success and fame in life inevitably came with sacrifices. Such as, disappointment in the Capital and the gaudy people breathing life into it, wrapping themselves in ostentatious, expensive lies. 

Within a matter of weeks, he came to know the most prominent faces and the desperate emptiness that surrounded them. It was them against him and they did not even realize. They never knew how it felt to fight for a place in their world and yet never feel like they truly belonged. He was better, sharper, much more promising than them, and yet… much less. Once he knew them all, the salons of Paris became nothing more but signifiers of decadence. The place where the world went to die. 

The widow of M. de Fervaques, her cheekbones glowing with shimmer as if she dipped her face into a bowl of crystals every morning. Her lips, red as cinnabar, the seal on a letter, painted precisely onto the face of a dainty doll. She would move her hands like she was merely floating in the air, between this world and the other. 

And Prince Korasoff, whose name often echoed in barely-lit salons, as faint cries. His voice would always be glazed with the edge of threatening flattery. Sublime backhanded compliments. Confidence in his own, undeniable superiority. If he ever wanted more than the fleeting pleasures of a clandestine affair, he hid his ambitions behind empty flirtations with marvellous skill. Then, Julien bitterly thought, one can hardly seek greater ambitions than the pleasure of conquering a woman when he was born with status and riches. 

And come to his disillusion with the Paris he yearned for, came the charms of Mathilde de la Mole. Her charms, or perhaps her persistence. She’d live in the world of a curious past, or indeed in the world of theatre and bloody tragedies, in which she wanted to make Julien her low-born accessory for a night. Seeking excitement, seeking all that would be taboo for a girl her status, she caught Julien in a whirlwind of despair. 

There was one thing he could not accept from Madame de Rênal, and it was rejection. There was one thing he was not about to accept from Mathilde, either. It truly marked the deterioration of times when women decided they may handle men the same way as men handled them. An accessory that was only easier to discard than it was to obtain. 

Nothing, not even death could be worse than his wounded pride. Mathilde, whose attention he accepted rather than welcomed before, now stood as the sole source of validation he sought. He knew exactly what Fouqué would say to this. 

“Forget about what they think. Just come back with me,” he’d beckon. “I can give you the life you need.”

Julien knew how his voice would be warm and friendly, but his eyes would be pleading, eager to save him from himself. And so, he was grateful that Fouqué was nowhere around him. 

The need to prove himself worthy to Mathilde and thus conquer the world had been throbbing in his veins. Out of control.

At times, he found self-control to be a virtue. At other times, only a tool to keep people at their place, unable to rise up. 

But no amount of self-control or free-flowing rage could change the indifference in Mathilde de la Mole’s eyes. That was what made it unbearable. What made him react with sudden melancholia at times, and such sullen distaste for the world that even the Prince Korasoff would not let it pass by without a word. 

“I know a broken-hearted man when I see one,” he said, curling a hand around his shoulder. “And there had been no broken heart I wasn’t able to mend. Tell me your story.” 

Reluctantly, Julien said a few words. Without inquiring as much as her name, Korasoff took a bold leap forward from there and drew up his rather accurate conclusions. Then, pressing a smile to the corner of his lips, he sat back down next to Julien, lazily crossing his legs. 

“I understand everything. Let me help you, my handsome and terribly distressed friend,” he said. “I have just the medicine you need. Albeit bitter. But if you decide to take it, your life will never be the same.” 

Korasoff was not his friend - just as much as he was not Korasoff’s. But, in the times of cold despair, with all his worth, passion, and ambition at peril, was there anything a desperate man would not try? 

“You have the eyes of a beaten dog. Humiliated and full of rage. I would love to doctor you.” Korasoff’s hand was still resting on his shoulder. He had small, feminine hands. Characteristically pale. “I made my debut to the world of love at a very young age, shall you ask for my credentials.” 

He talked and talked, at times verbose and flowery, at times simple and to the point. Like a tutor who is in love with his own voice, instead of what he is teaching.

“I can see that love is not something you have a lot of prior experience in,” he once happened to comment. Julien scoffed. “No, no, my friend, it makes me want to help you all the more. There is something about the purity of your rage.” 

With that, Korasoff prescribed his medicine. Meet his old flame every day, with no regret or sadness in the eyes. Find a friend close enough to her, similar in status, then make passionate declarations to them in flowery letters. Receive a favourable answer. Leave the letter somewhere to be discovered. Watch our old flame’s cheeks flush red with jealousy. 

“Should you be worried about the letters, there’s no need.” He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again for good measure. “I will provide you with my personal trove of letters. I have one for each situation. Maybe for you, my handsome friend, I will even write a custom one.” 

Before he would leave, his fingers lightly touched the tip of Julien’s nose. His hand faintly smelled like powder. 

As promised, a letter arrived from Korasoff the next afternoon. Marianne brought it into the Marquis’s study, carefully placing it on the corner of the desk.

“Monsieur Sorel. Someone left an envelope with your name written on it, so I brought it upstairs.” When Julien said nothing, she bowed her head. “I will be on my way, then.” 

He only reached for the envelope once the door closed behind the maid. It was indeed a rather fat, white envelope, carefully sealed. Once Julien opened it, he found a few samples copied in hasty, although legible handwriting. And, a cover letter, too.

_ My Dearest, Broken-Hearted Friend _ , it read, discreetly omitting his name. Reading it, his eyes carrying him from one line to the next, Julien found himself sucked into the verbose, flowery, powder-scented world of Prince Korasoff. Some flattery here, a compliment there, and suddenly he was not so sure if his custom love letter was merely an example or little else. 

Before he would realize, Julien found himself penning a reply to his letter. Perhaps it was the way he most considerately recalled a small albeit important detail from the day before. Or one eloquent word circling after the other in a much less hasty cursive. Reading it, he could almost hear the way his voice must have sounded in his own head as the words poured onto the paper. It was one of those, in the end, that must have compelled him to write. Korasoff’s letter was demanding an answer if by nothing else but its authenticity. 

The day after, Marianne delivered a reply. That time, he opened the letter before she would even be out of the study. Inquiring about the success of his quest, and the state of his heart. With the fervour unique to intimate male friends, that Julien had not known before, he wished him luck once again. 

Julien thought of Fouqué, briefly, as he decided on writing an answer. Although worlds apart, the two of them were oddly similar. On his side. In their own way. 

But, he had only almost forgotten about the revenge fantasy Korasoff dreamed up for him that afternoon. The next day, Julien knew he had to face Mathilde and her lovely companions, put on a smile, and gently draw one of them to the side. 

Everything went according to plan until the greetings. Upon when he recognized Korasoff’s fair curls bouncing behind the petite Mme de Fervaques in the background, and when their eyes met, he rushed to greet him, instead. 

Korasoff showed him a dimple, under his pressed smile. 

“Will I see you?” he asked. “Later this evening. It is not something to miss.” 

Korasoff meant the opportunity to stand face-to-face with his lady, of course. He agreed he would be there. Naturally, he would need to be there anyway as a companion to Norbert. His hand lightly touched Julien’s shoulder in response, a fleeting gesture.

“Good. You shall tell me all about your recovery then. I am eager to hear.” 

The grey late afternoon turned into evening before long, and suddenly the ostentatious, monotone gatherings began to gain colour once again. Swirling skirts, an abundance of lace, and Prince Korasoff in a military uniform. He would be idly chatting with Croisenois until he took notice of Julien entering the salon. Always dressed in dark, simple clothes, it was easy to feel like the mere shadow of the aristocracy. He gestured towards his gentleman friend, before making his way to Julien. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he confessed, more as a greeting than anything. “I wish to hear all about it.”

Only at that moment did Julien realize that he had done none of the homework he was given. He would exchange letters with him so ardently that for the entire while he forgot that there had been another, much more important letter to write. 

Korasoff drew him to the corner of the room, where the shadows would fall differently, claiming it was for privacy. His eyes are so black that the flames of the candlelight reflect in them perfectly. 

“Well,” he nudged him, “my handsome friend. Tell me, have you written a letter?” 

Julien was barely taller than him, so he could feel his breath on his skin when he exhaled into a smile. He did not like the posture he was taking, as if he was trying to show off his natural superiority. It reminded him of Madame de Rênal. And Mathilde. Their mere existence, insisting on being better than him. 

After a moment of consideration, he replied. 

“I have. In fact, I received a reply too. Although, I am not sure if it was a favourable reply.”

“My friend, any reply is favourable.” He stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice. “For it is too easy to cast away and ignore a letter that did not at least briefly move our hearts. I assure you: a reply in itself is favourable.” 

Wondering if it was understanding he saw in Korasoff’s eyes, he continued. “We exchanged multiple letters, by now. What is your verdict on that?” 

“Then, you truly have nothing to fear. Even if their first answer only came from pure politeness, they would surely lose interest after another letter returns. Wouldn’t you agree? If a letter did not pique your interest, would you exchange another and another in such close succession?”

He agreed, which made Korasoff softly exhale through his nose that accompanied another smile. Suddenly, they would be so close that Julien felt like their hips would brush against one another in any moment now.

In Korasoff’s eyes, he saw the same sense of superiority he would often recognize in Mathilde and Madame de Rênal too, before. Something perhaps more nuanced than pity, but not at all better. 

Julien was prone to getting himself carried away, building entire castles of nothing but oftentimes entirely unfounded assumptions. One thought would follow the other in rapid succession and soon he would be somewhere completely different from where he began. His thoughts carried him to a different plane of existence until his head began to hurt, and his lips felt all dry. 

When his violent thoughts would finally let him come to himself, he looked away from Korasoff’s lingering smile. From the other side of the salon, two women were watching them. One of them was Mathilde, with a curious, strange look in her eyes. The other was Marianne, as she simply held a silver tray, staring forward into space. It only happened, Julien thought, that the two of them were standing there in the line of her sight, and taking up the empty space she would be gazing at. 

He felt the warmth of a finger curling around his pinky, where the wall would hide them. 

“My head hurts,” Korasoff claimed. “I will go, get some fresh air. Will you perhaps join me?” 

Julien only agreed with a nod. As they made their way out of the salon, shoulders almost entirely pressed together, Korasoff snatched a glass of champagne from Marianne’s silver tray.

“With all due respect, that will not help your headache,” Julien suggested.

Korasoff took another glass from the tray and forced it on him. “Indulge me,” he asked, showing a dimple. 

Typical, Julien thought, but this time the stream of assumptions would stop there. Korasoff led him out to the garden, where the wind was chilly and the night was dark. On the sky, the moon was silver and full. 

He could barely make out the silhouette of Korasoff in the dark, and yet he knew exactly of the way he threw himself down on the bench - conveniently far away from the lights that filtered through the windows - and crossed his legs with champagne in hand. On a normal night, he would wait to be invited. This time was different. His pride would always beckon him to do something reckless and entirely cheeky. 

But Korasoff was no Madame de Rênal. No blushing wife. Not new to this at all. He had a clear vision to execute, with his free hand warming Julien’s thigh already, barely seconds after he sat down. 

Julien slapped his hand away. It was not like an aristocrat like him could do as he pleased. He should learn for once and all that Julien was in control. For no other reason than he needed to be in control. Proving himself was the only thing he lived for. 

Korasoff only made a surprised sound, but he had no means to do anything else. The next moment his chin was snatched, as Julien decidedly drew him into a kiss. Champagne they barely had a chance to take a sip of got knocked out of hands, spreading all over the bench and their trousers. He did not care. Someone else would have to clean up the glasses, should they find them on the ground when the sun came up in the morning. 

Knees pressed close, fingers entangled, they kissed until they would run out of breath, sighing against one another’s lips. It felt different from the guilt Madame de Rênal’s kisses tasted of, as well as the plain inexperience of Mathilde. Korasoff never denied that he knew what he was doing, and so this time, he felt the need to prove himself again. He recalled his first night with Madame de Rênal, desperate to seem something other than he was. Once again, his pride would not let him get caught in innocence. 

He would not let Korasoff even think he could control him. For being better, superior, whichever would it be. The dark helped. Somehow, the shadows always seemed to be on his side. 

Only the close rustling of some bushes interrupt them later. He would move away, but Korasoff keeps him at place with his fingers curling around his wrist. Someone drunkenly stumbled across the garden, close enough to almost brush into them unwittingly. Korasoff breathed against his skin with lips pressed against his neck. 

He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth without a sound. There was nothing better in life than living impulsively and being ready to accept any vile punishment that may await him at the end of the road to crown his impulsions. 

As the rustling of the footsteps disappeared, they stole back towards the light. 

“Seems like I shall retire for the night,” Korasoff said, as he looked down on his clothes, noticing that he was visibly drenched in champagne. He clicked his tongue. “Unless…”

“Unless?” Julien repeated, his voice scratching his own throat.

“Unless you shall retire with me.” Korasoff leaned close to his ear, breathing words into it in a low whisper. “You are not one of the ladies, after all, who’d need to hesitate, protecting their virtue. And, you know me well. We would not need to deceive one another.” 

Julien indeed knew, from Korasoff’s reputation and his own words as well, what sort of game he was playing. He did not want to simply give in to the story Korasoff must have already drawn up for himself. No. He wanted to play along, bringing his own flavour to the game. 

He smiled to himself, then pulled away from Korasoff with a steady step. “Count Norbert must be looking for me by now. Sweet dreams, Your Highness.”

His teeth under a thin smile sparkled with recognition. “Sweet dreams to you.” 

If he were to readily climb into yet another aristocrat’s personal chambers through the window, Julien thought, he would be discarded all the same. When he readily offered all of himself to Mathilde, flattered by being considered an equal to the Duke of Croisenois, his fate was already set. She would lose interest the moment he was available. Korasoff, as per his reputation, would do the same. And Julien was not about to become the victim to yet another aristocrat, bored out of their mind. 

Julien suspected a letter would come the next day, one intrigued by his refusal and wanting to turn a no into a yes. But Marianne presented him with nothing the whole day, which left him restless. When the door would open, he’d look up immediately, seeking a letter in the maid’s hand. 

Then came the evening and he would look for nobody else but Prince Korasoff in the crowd, trying to find out where his calculations went wrong. Why no letter came. Korasoff was in hiding, he surmised, when pacing around the salon he would find no traces of him. Hiding, or already otherwise occupied. 

“I was happy for you because yesterday you seemed to enjoy yourself,” Norbert scolded him, with a smile. “But today, once again, you are only wearing a frown for us.” 

“I am not frowning,” Julien claimed, frowning. 

Suddenly, two hands grabbed his upper arms from behind, a voice whispering in his ear. “We talked about no frowns when your old flame might be around. Give me a smile.” 

“Good evening.” 

“Good evening.” Korasoff still had not released him. Instead, he addressed Norbert with his chin practically resting on Julien’s shoulder. “Can you imagine? This poor soul got so upset over a certain lady last night, he poured a glass of champagne all over my clothes in a fit of passion. I had to leave in such a hurry, I couldn’t even say my goodbyes. Maybe I should have doctored him better.”

Norbert gripped his own chin between two fingers, squinting. “Cut Julien some slack. We all have our moments.” 

Korasoff’s melodic laughter sounded too close to his ear.

“You have your moments. I have had enough time to master all the moments possible already.” He stepped away from Julien to face him. “Which brings me, have you written to a lady friend as I suggested?” 

“No,” Julien simply answered, unable to conceal the truth. 

Mind you, Korasoff warned him with a playful edge in his voice, the letters exchanged between gentleman friends was not something for the eyes of a woman, should you want her to find those. It would hardly be jealousy that revelation would invoke. 

“Maybe I should have given you better advice,” he mused to himself. 

The next day, a letter was delivered to Julien, addressed to someone’s  _ Dearest, Broken-Hearted Friend _ . 

_ I have to confess a horrible oversight on my part, _ it read. _ I prescribed you a medicine too hastily. A connoisseur of the art of love since the age of fifteen I was, I said to you, but you regrettably only knew half of the story. Should you be interested in the other half, and the revised dosage of your remedy, you know where to find me.  _

As always, for there was no need for it, the letter lacked a signature. Julien ran his eyes through the lines several times, then tucked the paper under the chamberstick. 

He found Korasoff in the salon, as always, that evening. If he had been waiting for Julien to approach, he showed no signs of it. Seeing his figure, pleasantly chatting away without a single trace of anticipation vexed Julien. Fired up by his ignorance, Julien swore to the sweet memory of Napoleon that he’d have his full attention before the clocks struck midnight. 

That, or he’d die. 

As Korasoff was involved in an exchange with Norbert, he finally walked up to the latter, searching for something in his mind that may engage him in conversation. 

“The research for your studies you have asked of me,” he ended up saying, then, “will wait for you by the late afternoon tomorrow.” 

He approached them from Korasoff’s side, standing close enough that their shoulders would almost brush. Hidden by the sleeve of his jacket, he edged his fingers closer to his, until he could curl them around Korasoff’s. The man tilted his head towards him, slightly. 

“Oh, good evening. How’s your heart?” He squeezed Julien’s hand but the expression on his face barely changed.

“In fact, I received a letter today,” Julien told him, although he was well aware that the man knew. 

He could see Norbert curiously listening in, as well. 

“Oh my,” he squeezed Julien’s fingers again. “Well done.” 

“But I am troubled by not knowing how to answer.” He glanced at Korasoff for a moment, whose eyebrows ran up in anticipation. “Perhaps you could give me some advice on it later?”

Norbert clapped his hands together. “Oh, that is what he does best. Go. Seduce that lady with some words our prince lent you.” 

Released to go on their way by Norbert himself, nobody in the salon would be looking for them. 

“Well then, me and my handsome friend shall retire to somewhere more private where we can discuss the matters of his heart in peace.” He turned to Julien with a smile. “Maybe, you may even come to my quarters. Well then, goodnight.” 

They left the salon, making sure that sooner or later tonight, everyone would know where exactly they were headed. Hiding in plain sight. 

It was the time of truth. Julien would prove himself to be worthy of conquering just another aristocrat, moving from one forbidden thing to the next. 

Korasoff kissed him against the door after it barely shut behind them, but he only let him taste control for a few seconds before forcefully taking over. Korasoff did not hate it.

In fact… 

He woke up to the sheets rustling around him, and the morning sunshine softly filtering through the windows. Korasoff was stirring awake next to him. This was different from the hasty mornings filled with a sense of urgency that he spent with Madame de Rênal. It was also different from the sorry way he parted from Mathilde. Disenchanted. 

He had nowhere to go. For a moment, he did not feel cornered by anyone - albeit the dangers might as well have been the same as before. 

Everything was white around them. The pillows, the heavy blanket, and even the morning sun. 

“Wasn’t that bitter. The medicine,” Julien said, after a while. 

Korasoff lightly tapped on his chest with his fingers. “Help yourself to more, then?” 

“I did not know you had such an interest.”

Korasoff’s dimple appeared in his cheek. “When a man has a reputation for one certain thing, it is much easier to conceal everything else. And, women are truly exquisite. But I have an interest for anything that tickles my fancy? Say, have you seen anything lovelier than a blushing man?”

His nose softly poked Julien. “You blushed, last night. I knew it. The moment I saw you, I knew what was under all of that rage and frustration. You have to admit, you fell straight into my trap. Everything happened how I wanted it to, from beginning to end...”

“Well, that was quite enough.” He silenced Korasoff with a kiss. 

Time disappeared, and Julien only came to his senses once he remembered his promise from the night before.

“Norbert,” he said. “I promised to finish researching something for him by the afternoon.” 

“Well, no helping it, then,” Korasoff answered, largely unaffected. “I might see you in the evening. My handsome, very-very rough friend.” 

Julien dressed himself with only a handful of distractions to fight, then made his way back, heading straight to the Marquis’s study. In his head, he tried to count the hours he would need to finish Norbert’s research - something he only needed to do because the boy was too lazy to do his own studies. It did not matter, Julien thought. That exact research was his gateway to conquering yet another aristocrat last night. 

He smiled to himself, equal amounts proud, and overwhelmed by a new-found passion. He should have known, the moment he began his cat-and-mouse game with Korasoff. In fact, he probably did know. Julien lived according to his passions because his heart felt suddenly and deeply, seeking recognition as much as it sought pleasure. 

Julien would be seeing Korasoff again tonight, he told himself. In doing so, he shoved all he knew of the man to the back of his mind. 

It was later in the morning than he would normally arrive, but not too late. Straightening his jacket one last time, he pushed the door to the study open, only to find Marianne standing above his desk. In her hand, the letter from Korasoff that he carelessly tucked under the chamberstick the day before. 

As she looked up, their eyes met, and Julien remembered what Korasoff said about personal letters being discovered between gentleman friends. 

A bitter medicine, after all. 


End file.
